


Confessions

by mellyb6



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Comfort, Hurt, M/M, S3 spoilers, Tending Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis and Porthos are hurt. They tend their wounds. </p><p>Coda fic for Season 3 Episode 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a coda fic for S3 Ep6 Death of a Hero so if you haven't watched, it's likely to be filled with spoilers for you. 
> 
> Since I am convinced the show made Portamis canon, that's the established relationship here.

Aramis wished he could have stayed longer with the Queen. She looked so distressed, frightened. Terrified even. How vulnerable she had been. How desperate she had sounded. How she had clung to him in despair.

 

It wouldn't have been wise. Going to meet with her in the first place had not been wise either. Not after discovering that the King knew about her adultery.

 

He isn't sure what prompted the change of heart about not hanging him. Aramis shudders again, breathes out shallowly at the thought. In the mausoleum, during these few seconds where life had been close to escaping him forever, Aramis had realized he shouldn't have come back to Paris.

 

In spite of meeting with his brothers and his friends again, it was the right thing to do to remove himself from the capital city. And yet, he knows now that he has to stay for the Queen. Her ennemies will destroy her the very moment they can and she has so few allies. So few friends who would help, support and defend her. Aramis is determined to be one of those.

 

It means going against the King's command to not see her. But he's already flouted it minutes earlier. Many secrets again, even scarier now that the monarch knows of their affair. The Musketeer is aware it will be his death sentence, one day or another. He's been lucky and he cannot stay away. He's doomed.

 

Until then, he'll do his best. He'll do his duty. He'll do all he can to ensure that the Queen and the Dauphin don't suffer because of his mistakes.

 

It's dark in the Garrison when he eventually finds his way back to it. The others left the Palace hours before Aramis did, to nurse their wounds. And now that the memory of their faces comes back to the fore, he realizes he has more urgent matters to attend to than the state of his neck.

 

He barely talked to Porthos, Athos or d'Artagnan to inquire how they were doing. There was too much to discuss: Féron's death, the King's incoming one, Grimaud's influence and role in the entire plot. Aramis was somewhat lucky to have been sent back to escort his Majesty.

 

D'Artagnan recounted their ambush, the shooting and the explosion. It sends Aramis' heart into fits to imagine the worst. His current urgency is to make sure that they are fine tonight.

 

He's pleased to see that he'd guessed right and there's light in the kitchen. Not a sound, though, except the creaking of the door he pushes open. The room is almost empty as well. There's only Porthos there, hunched over a table, fingers clutching a glass of wine, the carafe by its side. He holds his head in his hand.

 

He doesn't move to acknowledge the intrusion, but he doesn't request for Aramis to leave either. So he treads carefully, deposits his weapons on a chair and comes to sit on the bench, close to Porthos. Not as close as he'd liked. It's best that way sometimes. He isn't sure how his company will be received.

 

“What took you so long?” Porthos grunts to greet him.

 

“I had some business to attend to.”

 

“What...you know what? Never mind. You'll tell me another time. Have some wine.”

 

Aramis gladly accepts the full glass. It's a bitter taste in his mouth, but the alcohol feels good, warms him up a little. Porthos shifts on the bench so he can have a better look at his friend. Aramis' eyes are on him as well, and he flinches at the dirt and the dried blood.

 

“It's nothing,” Porthos assures him. Nevertheless, he doesn't shy away from Aramis' fingertips gliding on the cuts, tracing the edges and deciding for himself if it's serious or not.

 

The touch is comforting after the haze of their hectic day. It seems impossible that only this morning, they were shooting bottles for money. How can you go from waking up carefree and happy to being almost blown to pieces? Or crushed under a building.

 

On top of the rage and anger Porthos feels about the murder attempt, he's also feeling the aftermath of his talk with d'Artagnan. It's the reason why he didn't want to go to bed, alone with his thoughts. Here at least, there's wine and it's warm. It saddens him to realize that he may never find someone to fill his life like Constance did for his young friend. Because Porthos can freely admit now that he desires it. He may have done so before, and in these moments, his thoughts wander back to sweet Alice, her memory still fresh despite not having seen her in years.

 

But the war has changed him in more ways than one. He doesn't want to leave this world without sharing it with someone precious. Several someones, hopefully. Little people that he would love the way Belgard never did with him.

 

Porthos fears he'll never have this. He has Aramis, though. Months have passed since their reunion. Almost a year and their first uneasiness has completely vanished. They're both different men and yet deep down, their essence is the same as ever. Their relationship could never go back to what it was before. Now, instead, it's like discovering a new person.

 

Porthos sometimes closes off because Aramis cannot understand the war and its side effets. Aramis is still gentle, perhaps more worded and patient in his actions. And then they'll smile and hug and reach out for effortless interactions.

 

For Aramis, it was like picking his sword again after so many years. Rusty, awkward and slowly, easily, he found his footing. A new balance.

 

When Aramis brushes his fingertips over his cheek, Porthos closes his eyes briefly. Then, the touch is gone. So is his friend who comes back quickly with water and a rag.

 

“You don't have to.”

 

“I wasn't there to protect you but you came to our rescue. Hurt as you were. Let me do this. Please.”

 

The soft and deep voice settles Porthos. It's a voice he'd never dared imagine he would hear again and even if Aramis displays no sign of abandoning him any time soon, Porthos hates how the mere idea terrifies him.

 

The water feels good on his skin and Aramis is delicate, barely applies any pressure on the other's face. Porthos is so beautiful with glistening skin. They never break eye-contact while he's busy cleaning Porthos' features. They hardly speak either. Aramis is so close now, invades Porthos' space. Their knees bump since they are both straddling the bench. Water drips down Porthos' neck and disappear under his black shirt. There's blood there as well.

 

After a while, Aramis can make out where bruises are likely to bloom on the dark skin. Nothing requires stitching so that's a relief.

 

“There,” he says, setting the wet rag on the table. “As pretty as ever.”

 

Porthos chuckles at the compliment, which triggers a cough. Wine is available to ease him through it. Aramis is still smiling fondly at him once Porthos can focus again. He has put one solid hand on Porthos' shoulder and he's so thankful Aramis has returned to him.

 

“Why did the King ask for you?”

 

The question has been nagging him from the moment Marcheaux caught up with them on the road. In spite of his selfish need to be close to Aramis, it's dangerous for him in Paris. They do their best to keep him away from the Palace. A direct order from his Majesty, though...And if he's dying and he told Aramis...It could mean many things and Porthos' head aches with the weight of it.

 

It intensifies as the smile fade, crinkles are replaced by a frown, and the spark in Aramis' eyes morphs into fear. He almost doesn't need to explain it out loud. He won't keep these sorts of secrets from Porthos anymore. Not after it destroyed them once already.

 

“He knows,” Aramis breathes out quietly.

 

Porthos growls, balls his fists, resolute to help his friend again, if he has to. But...it doesn't add up. He frowns.

 

“Why are you here, then?”

 

“What do you mean? I'm done running away from my duty.”

 

“No, not that. Why aren't you in prison? It's still treason.”

 

He lowers his voice in case a Cadet decides to come looking in places he shouldn't. Aramis gives a dry chuckle at the inquiry and the worried look on Porthos' face. Bless him. He loves him. Aramis' shoulders sag and he fumbles with the empty carafe.

 

“That's where I should be...He said I'd hang after I admitted it.”

 

“Why did you....”

 

“I just did,” Aramis shrugs. It hurts to remember it. “I had to. You didn't see him. I suppose I forgot I was talking to the one man who could have me executed. But then he changed his mind. I've no idea why and it doesn't matter. Not as long as I can stay alive.”

 

He gives another chuckle and Porthos nods his agreement. His jaw is set and his eyes are angry nonetheless.

 

“He's forbidden me from seeing them. Even after he's dead.”

 

There's a sad edge to his voise as he confesses this. It encompasses all that could have been. The possibilities evaporating because of royal edits likely to be implemented.

 

They are similar in so many ways, Porthos and Aramis. Their desire for a family they may never obtain. Porthos used to resent Aramis for sleeping with the Queen, for endangering the entire Kingdom. How heartbreaking it must be, to know you have a child but he can never be yours.

 

It's a comfort to know that Porthos and Aramis have one another. They're their own family. Troubled and imperfect but after so long, they have each other's back again. Unless official circumstances force them apart.

 

“At least your ponytail is still attached to the rest of your body,” Porthos teases, reaching out to let the hair out of the ribbon. Aramis' genuine laughter is another comfort. It makes Porthos laugh in turn. It changes into a groan too soon and he has to hold his side.

 

“Are you hurt?” Aramis is serious once more and he doesn't wait for the other's approval to lift the shirt and have a better look.

 

“A building did fall on me. Ouch!”

 

“I'm afraid it's broken,” Aramis decides after probing Porthos' ribs. “Perhaps even two are.”

 

Porthos groans again, but not in pain. More in frustration. He cannot wait to find Grimaud and punch, stab and shoot some retaliation into the man.

 

“Take off your shirt,” Aramis commands suddenly. Porthos cocks his head.

 

“I usually prefer a little more wooing before.”

 

“Don't make me hurt you more. Take off that shirt and I'll find some bandages.”

 

As Aramis walks past Porthos on his way out, calloused fingers close on his wrist. He looks down at his friend, hurt, tired, but compassionate and loving.

 

“You'll be fine, Aramis.”

 

“I know. So will you.” Of that, he is certain. He has to lie about himself.

 

The only thing making him break free from Porthos' grasp is knowing that he must care for him and that he'll spend the night doing so, if needs be.

 


End file.
